


and i hope tomorrow never comes

by wyverning



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Baby Driver AU, Car Chases, M/M, andrew as baby, but like in a sexy way, canonical minor character death in future chapters, everyone mentioned in this story is a criminal, lots of flirting, neil as debora, that's it that's the fic, with both each other and the law, you know in a sexy way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-01-04 04:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverning/pseuds/wyverning
Summary: Three.His heartrate picks up, a thrumming drumbeat beneath his ribcage.Two.Andrew's hands tremble, just the slightest bit. You'd hardly notice it, if you weren't perceptive.One.He presses play on the phone held loosely in his hand the exact instant Lola bursts out of the bank, crude clown mask covering her ever-present sneer.Zero.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on my phone while on a bus-ride home after supervising a bunch of teenagers in san francisco all day. all mistakes are my own (and most certainly the mistake of starting a new fic impulsively after thinking to myself, "why aren't there more baby driver AUs in every fandom")

It's curious, this foray into organized crime.

Well. _ Curious _ is a strong word. Andrew is, at least, amused enough by its noticeable difference from the dragging monotony of every other aspect of his life, which is why he engages in it.

He taps a finger against the steering wheel, counting the seconds out. The Malcolm siblings aren't exactly known for their punctuality, but they get the job done, and Andrew's worked with them often enough to know their habits by now. Breaking the law is nothing new to Andrew, but this makeshift teamwork? It's a shitshow most of the time, but he can't complain about the results.

Nicky would weep if he had any idea.

_ Three._

His heartrate picks up, a thrumming drumbeat beneath his ribcage.

_ Two. _

Andrew's hands tremble, just the slightest bit. You'd hardly notice it, if you weren't perceptive.

_ One. _

He presses _ play _ on the phone held loosely in his hand the exact instant Lola bursts out of the bank, crude clown mask covering her ever-present sneer.

_ Zero._

The moment Lola and Romero pile into the deceptively-shitty looking Honda, Andrew's off. Sirens blare around them, dogging them as they tear through the streets, and he grins, the flash of his teeth reminiscent of court-mandated drugs and nonconsensual mania.

His music is loud enough to drown out the yell of cops over their loudspeakers, and it dulls the buzzing in his ears for long enough that he can focus entirely on the chase.

Rabbits run at the first sign of danger, but Andrew's not fleeing. He's the predator, lunging for the high of a successful chase. And oh, can he sprint.

The Honda's engine purrs underneath the hood, as pleased as Andrew is to reach its full potential, and he floors it while the asphalt beneath them flies by.

_ Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, _ the song pumping out of the speakers says, and Lola whoops from the backseat. She loves the speed almost as much as Andrew does, but she's a sloppy, emotional driver, and nearly got them caught on multiple occasions before Andrew had fallen in with their lot.

He's their only driver, now.

The police are off their game today: it only takes a few ducked-in side streets, several looping, tire-screeching U-turns, and a clever swap with some similarly-colored cars under a busy interstate underpass to lose them. It's good for the bank robbers in the backseat, but disappointing for their getaway driver. Andrew pulls into the parking structure in what feels like no time at all, enjoying the squeal of tires as he jolts to a stop next to their _ real _getaway car.

"Jesus fucking Christ, kid," Romero snaps, a hand braced against the headrest in front of him. It would've been funny to see his face smash into it instead, but Andrew will take the swearing. 

With the keys pulled from the ignition, his music cuts out, and the incessant hum in his fucking _ brain _ resumes.

"Out."

They listen to him, transferring cars easily, and Andrew pops the aux cable into his phone to play a new track. It's quieter, less auspicious, as they creep out of the parking garage and into the busy streets of the city.

* * *

"Nice work today," Nathan Wesninski says. He hands Andrew a stack of stolen cash from the Malcolm's earnings along with a sharp smile.

It's not enough.

Andrew knows better than to assume it'll ever be enough.

He nods curtly, anyway. Parasitic relationship or not, Nathan genuinely believes that Andrew regrets his botched attempt at stealing a Maserati six years ago. It's easier if the crime boss continues operating under his delusions – there's no telling what else he'd have Andrew do if Nathan knew he doesn't _ mind _ this kind of work.

Seeing Nathan always irritates him: it's a faint buzz akin to a scratch that can't be itched. Lowkey, non-fatal, but no less annoying. It reminds him of the threat of men outside a club slinging insults at his cousin, of his twin's mother raising her hand in anger.

Nathan deals in violence, but it's far from the worst crime he could commit. Andrew doesn't fear him; after all, even powerful men still bleed.

And yet…

He isn't in the habit of wanting, but he wouldn't mind shoving a knife into Nathan's gut, one of these days.

He takes his money and his leave. As the adrenaline fades from his bloodstream, Andrew finds himself starving. (It's not an excuse, he tells himself. Escaping after an armed robbery is a good reason to crave a shitty hamburger.)

The Foxhole is a sorry excuse for a diner, but Andrew pulls up – in the GS this time, a guilty pleasure – and glares at the neon sign of a pouncing fox anyway.

"Hey," a familiar voice greets him as he moves toward the closest available booth without waiting for the waitress behind the counter to greet him. It's Allison, today, and she flips him off as he passes by.

Neil Josten looks down at him, a smile quirking his lips. "What can I get you?"

Andrew stares flatly at him.

Neil stares back.

Unwilling to lose, he glares into those stupid eyes until they crinkle with amusement and shift away.

"One day," Neil says, feigning exasperation, "you're going to come in here and want something new, and when I give you your stupid cheeseburger, you'll threaten me and I'll have to defend my very life, and then we'll get blood all over Wymack's diner in our fight to the death, and while we're bleeding out from the wounds we've inflicted upon each other, he'll _still_ make us clean it up."

It's hard work, but Andrew manages to quell the twitch of his lips.

Neil flicks his pen at Andrew's face. He snatches it out of the air, twirling it between his fingers for a moment before deftly snapping the brittle plastic in two. "One day," Andrew agrees, dropping the two halves of the former pen on the table. "But not today."

"What a waste." Neil sighs like he's _ actually _upset, another lie on top of the dozens that make up the very fabric of Neil Josten's entire being, and then walks away, presumably to put in Andrew's regular order.

Andrew sucks on his teeth while he waits, thinking of the crisp bills in his glove box and the cost of Bee's medicine for the following month. (He resolutely does _ not _ think about Neil's ridiculous cheekbones and dark, curly hair.)

Today's been a better day than most. It's not enough, but Andrew knows better than to assume it ever will be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bee’s watching the news.
> 
> The tinnitus in his ears is an ever-present reminder of what he’s done, but it hums louder as he hears the news anchor drone on about the garbled descriptions of the Malcolms the security cameras had caught. A pixellated picture of Andrew – large sunglasses covering his recognizable features – broadcasts on the program, alongside information about the Honda he’d abandoned. 
> 
> Bee looks significantly at the television screen, and then at Andrew.
> 
> He points his fingers at her in the shape of a gun, and fires.

Bee’s watching the news.

The tinnitus in his ears is an ever-present reminder of what he’s done, but it hums louder as he hears the news anchor drone on about the garbled descriptions of the Malcolms the security cameras had caught. A pixelated picture of Andrew – large sunglasses covering his recognizable features – broadcasts on the program, alongside information about the Honda he’d abandoned. 

Bee looks significantly at the television screen, and then at Andrew.

He points his fingers at her in the shape of a gun, and fires.

_ You don’t belong in that world, _ Betsy signs. 

Andrew can’t help the scoff. He was forcibly dragged into this world from childhood, and has never left it. Never will. There’s too much poison in him to be inoculated from _ that world_.

_ Need to pay the bills, _ he responds. His blood circulation is shit in the cool air of their house, and his fingers feel stiff as he forms the signs. 

Bee frowns. Andrew taps the wheel of her chair, abruptly finished with this conversation. _ Are you hungry? _

It takes a moment for a reluctant smile to appear, but eventually, she nods. _ Always. _

_ Don’t forget the hot cocoa, _ they both sign at the same time. Andrew knows her habits too well. 

She spares him a wink, and he gets up to make dinner. 

* * *

The job involves three criminals he doesn’t bother learning the names of. Nathan reserves the high-risk jobs for the Malcolms, and gives the rest to shitstains like these. Andrew doesn’t know where Nathan finds them, but between the stupid facial tattoos and the overwhelmingly cocky auras surrounding them, they’ll likely be dead within the month.

Maybe that’s the point. 

One of them has a chip on his shoulder and keeps glaring at Andrew like he expects him to explode. He seems personally offended that Andrew’s not even bothering with listening to Nathan, music a comfortable rhythm in his ears as he considers the best car to boost.

Andrew stares back at him until he looks away. 

Nathan wants them to rob an armored truck, and Andrew repeats as much when the angry thug demands to know if Andrew’s even paying attention. He doesn’t _ need _ the earbuds in his ears to drown out the persistent buzzing; that’s impossible. But it’s almost an added bonus how much it pisses people off when they think he’s not listening.

What Criminal Goon #3 doesn’t understand – what _ nobody _ seems to understand – is that none of this matters. Andrew doesn’t give a single shit if any of them survive the heists Nathan coordinates for them, as long as he gets to drive expensive cars and outwit shit-for-brains cops. 

There is no divining force in the world that determines whether he’s doing the _ right _ or _ good _ thing. The only kind of justice is the kind you dole out yourself, and one of the few things that makes him feel anything anymore is knowing precisely how useless the police force is in the face of their so-called _ justice. _

* * *

Andrew stops by the diner the morning of the heist. 

He’s greeted by Neil behind the counter. He doesn’t grant Andrew the customer-service smile he tosses at strangers, instead grabbing a nearby container of sugar and pouring half of it into a waiting cup of coffee. Without breaking his line of sight from Andrew’s, he stirs the sugar in and slides the mug toward him.

Good timing. Andrew grabs it, taking a sip before realizing that Neil’s charity is nonexistent.

It’s salt, not sugar.

Andrew’s not one to back down from a challenge, though, so he continues drinking the sabotaged drink until the cup is empty.

“I think that hurt me more than it hurt you,” Neil says, awe clear in his voice. “Holy shit. The coffee’s on me.”

He takes a moment to compose his features from the acrid taste sloughing down his esophagus. “No.”

“No?”

“You owe me. Drinking it for free isn’t enough.”

Neil huffs a laugh. “I _ suppose _ I could be convinced to hand over the $2.31 I’ve received in tips over the course of the last three hours.”

Andrew’s not interested in money; he gets enough running Nathan’s jobs. “Give me a truth and you can keep your pennies.”

Something happens to Neil’s features. It’s just a split second where the walls come up behind his eyes before he smiles again, less easily than he had before. “What, like my favorite color?”

Andrew shakes his head. "Something real."

The diner's empty; it's a strange time, in between breakfast and lunchtime, and it's just Neil, the cook, and him in the large space. Time feels stale, like they've all stopped breathing and all that's left is the sad reminder that there used to be life here, once.

Neil hums under his breath. It's a complementary pitch to the one playing in his mind at all times, and Andrew waits him out. While Neil's masquerading around as prey, he needs to be treated like a cornered animal. He'll only run if Andrew pushes too hard – and maybe that's something he should want, a justification for abandoning this distraction, but he's never pretended to be anything other than self-destructive.

"I cried when my mom died," Neil says finally, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. "I probably shouldn't have, given everything that happened between us, but I did, anyway."

It appears to fit the parameters Andrew has assigned him. For once, Neil Josten looks authentic, a real human being instead of the frightened smear of nonexistence that he tends to default to, and the words sound genuine. For a spectre that appeared out of thin air a month ago begging Wymack for a job, he's doing a convincing job of pretending he's not a gigantic question mark.

He'll be sure to let Aaron know that they have enough members for the Crying About Dead Mothers club.

"You miss her." It's not a question.

A frown tugs at Neil's lips. "That's... yeah. She understood me, I guess."

_ Nobody else does, now _goes unsaid. This is the part of Nicky's favorite romantic novels where Andrew's supposed to say something like, _ No, Neil, she's not the only one, _ or something equally insipid.

Instead, Andrew reaches a hand out and flicks Neil's cheek, hard. He startles at the motion, a smear of red marking where Andrew's finger had hit. "She's gone. You're not. What more do you need?"

"That's enough," Neil says, and it's clear he's surprised himself with the words. "I survived."

The buzz of his burner phone in his pocket tells Andrew that it's time. He grabs the mug of his ruined coffee and turns it upside-down on the countertop, satisfied to see the dregs of his drink leak out past the lip of the cheap cup. 

Neil’s repaid the terrible coffee with his words, but Andrew’s feeling generous. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t seen the idiots he’ll be working with yet, but he says, "I didn't.”

"Didn't what?"

"Cry when she died. I was too busy laughing."

Neil looks at him like he's seeing him for the first time.

Andrew taps his head. "It was a concussion from the car crash, of course. A hysterical trauma response." And, because he's also feeling daring, and because the tinnitus has dulled around the bizzarely-loud thump of his heartbeat in his ears, he adds, "Supposedly."

The salted coffee settles uneasily in his stomach, but he takes Neil’s thoughtful look with him as he heads toward Nathan’s meeting spot.

* * *

Things inevitably go wrong.

It’s one of the most predictable parts of Andrew’s life at this point: the moment he settles into a routine, lets even the _ slightest _ bit of tension go in the line of his shoulders, it all goes to shit.

Andrew’s not above a little vengeful homicide, and he’s close to it as the idiots in the backseat squeal and holler while he _ tries _ to get them the fuck out of dodge. They’d killed the guard manning the armored truck, and some gun-toting bystander had seen it and decided to try and be a hero.

His raised truck rams into Andrew’s SUV, jerking the wheel dangerously. The glass in his door’s window shatters as he slams into the semi next to him on the road, fragments raining down on him. Very concerned citizens can eat a bullet, as far as Andrew's concerned. Minding their own business would go a lot further than Andrew being forced to incapacitate them and their monstrosity of a vehicle.

If everyone else in the car would shut the fuck up, maybe Andrew could focus enough to maneuver them out of this particular disaster. As it is, their frantic getaway has dislodged his phone from the aux cable, and the absence of music as he drives feels like a displaced limb. 

He focuses all of his attention on getting them away from the guy shooting at them. It’s ridiculous, how one man can shoot and drive at the same time while Andrew has three criminals in the car with them that are incapable of doing anything but _ bitch _ while he does all the heavy lifting. He slams his fist into the shoulder of the goon in the passenger seat, spitting out an insult and a gesture at the shotgun resting idly across his lap.

Fucking idiot.

One of them_finally_ manages to force the bystander off the road with a few shots to his tires, and they all scramble to ditch the SUV – it had been a smooth ride; he’ll have to consider more Escalades in the future – and Andrew tears open the door to the closest sedan on the road.

“Oh, god,” a woman cries as Andrew drags her out of the car. “I have a child!”

Irresponsible of her to have a baby in a world like this. Andrew jerks his head toward the backseat, and she scrambles forward through her wide-eyed panic. She doesn’t do anything stupid like try to incapacitate Andrew as she reaches past him to take the crying infant from its seat, but still he tenses as her clothed frame brushes against him.

It’s not kindness, but practicality. They don’t have the means to take care of a fucking baby, and he’s not about to add infanticide to his ever-growing list of criminal activity. The rest of them pile into the car after Andrew slides into the driver's seat.

“Fuck!” one of them curses as Andrew gets them off the freeway and into relative safety. “I left my gun in the SUV!”

Of course, Andrew's the only one wearing gloves.

He's reminded of Bee’s words: _ this world _ is a fucking travesty. Andrew should just kill all of them – everyone who recognizes his face is a liability.

Andrew craves a fucking cigarette.

* * *

Turns out Nathan has a similar idea. Andrew sees the robber with the frankly embarrassing tattoos only one more time: crammed into the trunk of one of Nathan’s cars. Shortly thereafter, Andrew is told to dispose of the entire vehicle.

* * *

Bee frowns at him as he walks through the door, beckoning him closer. _ What happened?_ she signs. _ Can I touch? _

Andrew nods, and she presses gentle fingertips to the cuts on his brow from the glass. Her fingers come away tacky with blood.

_ Don’t worry about it, _ he says. _ I won’t let anything happen to you. _

_ I’m not worried about myself, _ Bee responds. 

He steps away to turn the record player on. When he finally turns back toward Bee, heavy bass thumping through the sound system hooked up around the house, she looks disapproving. _ Andrew, _ she signs, _ I can’t help but be concerned. You know that you can talk to me. _

It’s unkind to respond with, _ I don’t pay you for therapy anymore, _ but he signs it anyway. He’s never been known for the softness that others like her were born with.

He has no need for it, either.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laundromats are not inherently sexy places, yet Neil Josten manages to radiate an unexplainable aura within one that is _far_ too distracting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha oh wow i had this finished and sitting in a google doc for an entire month. working a full-time job makes you forget everything but how constantly exhausted you are

Laundromats are not inherently sexy places, yet Neil Josten manages to radiate an unexplainable aura within one that is _ far _ too distracting.

There’s a sliver of skin between his well-worn, faded shirt and the snug fit of his ridiculous jean shorts as he shoves an armful of clothing into the washing machine above his head. Andrew wants to be disgusted at his terrible fashion sense. Instead, he can’t tear his gaze away.

“—and anyway, why even take the job if you don’t want to _ show up _ for your shifts?” Neil’s ranting. He sloshes a large bottle of detergent around to punctuate his words. “I hope Wymack fires him. I’m tired of covering for his lazy ass.”

“But Seth not showing up means you get more money when you inevitably pick up his shifts,” Andrew says around the lollipop in his mouth. The hard press of candy against his tongue isn’t a great distraction against the inclination to press that same appendage to Neil’s exposed skin, but no one can say Andrew doesn’t have good self-control.

Neil starts the washer and then scrambles on top of the dryer next to the one that Andrew’s currently sitting on. “Yeah, but that’s not the _ point. _ We shouldn’t be punished for his shitty work ethic.”

At least that’s not a problem Andrew has, in his current line of work. The amount of money at risk makes everyone _ highly _ motivated to succeed. “You could always kill him. Takes care of the problem.”

It’s only a half-joke, but Neil laughs. “That’d be even more work. Hiding a body isn’t exactly mess-free.”

Music trickles into one ear from his earbuds. The sound of Neil’s amusement makes his fingers twitch toward the controls on one wire, like he might pause the song to hear him better.

He doesn’t, resisting the impulse with a clenched fist. 

The soft jingle of a bell above the door draws Andrew's attention to the man in a well-tailored suit that enters the laundromat. He does not appear to have any laundry along with him.

Andrew raises a single eyebrow.

“You know,” Neil says, and there’s something odd about his tone that wasn’t there moments ago. He stares at the row of washing machines in front of them like he doesn't see them at all. “This is probably very boring for you. We could go out sometime.”

“Aren’t we out now?” Andrew gestures grandly to the near-empty laundromat they’re in, but he does recognize evasiveness when he sees it. He has no interest in forcing Neil to engage with him if that's not what he wants.

The height of the dryers is downright malicious. In what is possibly the least graceful move of all time, Andrew pushes off of its lid until he’s standing next to Neil’s dangling legs.

“Have fun plotting murder,” Andrew says, knocking his knuckles against the worn rubber sole of Neil's shoes. He moves toward the door, granting Neil a two-fingered salute.

As he leaves, the eyes of the businessman who just entered track him. He cracks the lollipop on his back molars before flicking the stick into a nearby garbage can.

* * *

Andrew doesn’t think he’ll ever be _free_ of Nathan’s interest in him, but he does feel like he’s at least earned a goddamned break. The last heist had nearly gone to shit because of the idiot’s Nathan had hired and an overbearing civilian, and so he breaks the newest burner phone given to him and focuses on making sure Bee is comfortable.

He also spends more time with Neil, and, by proxy, his terrible coworkers. As a result, he’s extremely sick of terrible cheeseburgers, and only marginally less sick of chocolate milkshakes. (One of those statements is less true than the other.)

It takes another week for Neil to ask him out on a proper date, but he’s fairly sure Neil would’ve bolted if Andrew had taken the initiative himself. He doesn’t mind waiting, especially with “work” so slow. Neil Josten requires a less-straightforward approach.

They end up at a high-end restaurant that is as precisely as awkward as Andrew had expected it would be. Andrew doesn’t bother to dress up, and Neil looks like he spent approximately $2 more than usual on the shirt he’s wearing.

“Which one of them convinced you to go here?” Andrew asks as they wait to be seated. 

Neil frowns at him. “Allison. Is it _ that _ bad?”

If Andrew were a weaker man, he might have laughed aloud. “Isn’t Allison dating the shitstain you couldn’t stop complaining about the other day? You took dating advice from _ her?” _

“Oh, shit,” Neil says, darting a frantic glance around the restaurant's interior. “We should definitely leave.”

“No, no.” The host calls Neil’s name and they’re ushered toward a secluded booth before Neil can run. Andrew wiggles the fingers on one hand and gestures toward the cascade of tables ahead of them. “Woo me.”

Despite his sarcasm, the date goes well: Neil stops looking like he’s about to spontaneously combust about halfway into it, finally settling into a sort of comfort that only seems partly feigned. Andrew isn’t typically a _ relationship _ kind of person, preferring unattached hookups that can follow directions properly, but Neil’s… different.

He’s not sure anyone will ever truly rival the gaping blankness that overtakes him most days, but the night — and Neil — are interesting enough that it’s held at bay for the evening.

At least, it is until Neil tries to pay and the waiter says, “You’re all good. A gentleman picked up the tab for you.”

Benevolence never comes without strings attached, and Neil looks earnestly confused enough for Andrew to know he hadn’t planned this particular part of the evening. There aren’t many people these days that would track Andrew down like this, and _ gentleman _certainly isn’t a word Andrew would use to describe any of them.

There's no reason for Neil to come into contact with this part of his life, and so he tells Neil brusquely, “I’ll see you later,” and makes sure he gets out to the street without being seen. 

Just as Andrew doesn’t pry into Neil’s peculiar behaviors, the other man returns the favor easily enough. He clearly notices something off, but he doesn’t question it. Instead he asks, “Can I touch you?” and waits for Andrew’s nod — it pisses him off that Neil is able to easily infer something like that — before he brushes his knuckles against Andrew’s jawline. 

Andrew’s skin burns where Neil had touched.

He allows the feeling to set his entire being on fire as he turns the corner, alone, and sees Nathan Wesninski. “Come have a drink with me,” the crime boss says, gesturing toward the bar. It is, of course, a command, and not a request.

He makes his way over and points at the top-shelf whiskey once the bartender comes by. If Nathan’s buying, he’s not drinking something cheap.

Nathan sips his own drink, looking for all the world like he belongs as he settles into the barstool. “Who’s the date?”

“None of your business,” Andrew says blandly. “What do you want?”

“Everything's my business,” Nathan responds, drumming his fingers on the countertop. "Ignoring me for a distraction like _that?_ I'm almost offended."

"Get to the point." He downs his glass, setting it firmly on the bartop.

Nathan's mouth pulls into a vicious smile. "Betsy Dobson. I know you put most of the money you earn with me into her treatment. You don’t have nearly enough saved up to continue if you back out now.”

Anger’s one of the few emotions Andrew has left. It’s a thick burn deep in his veins at the sound of Nathan Wesninski saying Bee’s name aloud, a fire entirely separate from the one kindled in his chest from Neil’s touch.

“Blackmail,” he says slowly. “Attractive. Why can’t Lola drive for you?”

Nathan raises a brow. “You’re misunderstanding, Andrew. This isn’t a negotiation. I don’t even need to bring your mother into this, really. Well – Betsy. You already took care of your birth mother, but I wonder how your brother Aaron would handle some exposure to the… struggles we face. I’ve always wanted a personal doctor to patch up my men when they need it.”

Andrew is no stranger to men who can’t take no for an answer; they’ve never shown him an ounce of mercy when asked. The only thing that works is taking things by force.

He’s going to kill Nathan Wesninski for this. But he’ll take the money, first.

“What’s the job?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really stretching thin the canon movie plotline here, but oh well. my fic, my rules. enjoy some sexy, sexy criminal!andrew.

Nathan has them meeting one of his connections to pick up weapons for tomorrow’s job.

It seems like a pretty standard trade, at first. Andrew surveys the warehouse they’re meeting in along with the runners with their guns. An overly-flamboyant asshole in a suit negotiates prices with Jackson and Romero, but Andrew’s attention catches on the asshole’s bodyguard, who has absolutely terrible taste in hats.

It’s rare that things ever go _extremely_ _well_ in their line of work — there’s almost always some sort of complex problem that arises in the middle of a heist, typically involving stupidity or cowardice or unexpected outside interference. When things don’t go according to plan, you better learn to improvise. High-risk rewards go hand-in-hand with high-risk _crimes. _ Getting shot or having to make a spontaneous getaway aren’t out of the ordinary in their line of work.

Andrew’s been jacking cars since he was a kid, and he learned early on that rolling with the punches is an essential job requirement. You either have it, or you don’t, in which case, you end up fucking dead.

In this case, things do not go _extremely well. _

One moment, it seems like they’re going to do business, and the next, a gunshot deafens Andrew as everyone within a twenty-foot radius pulls a weapon on Jackson, who’s just eliminated the asshole in a suit with a neatly-placed headshot.

Andrew hates guns. They’re too loud, too messy. You can accomplish the same level of harm with a knife, and do it in utter silence.

It’s also so _impersonal, _ he thinks as he dives behind a cement pillar and everyone open-fires. While he has no qualms taking a life that’s earned a swift death, Andrew doesn’t enjoy the concept of removed, detached killings. 

People who deserve to die should know exactly who is behind their execution, instead of the distance of the cold metal of a sleek gun.

“Andrew!” Lola shrieks, as one of the survivors of the firefight pushes past her to try and flee in a nearby van.

A quick stab and twist up and into the guy’s ribcage has him slumping to the ground in seconds, and Andrew looks up at Lola and Romero. They appear to have remained bullethole-free, spitting mad as they drop empty magazines and reload.

“Fuck this,” he says, wiping the knife off on the dead guy’s shirt and sliding it back into his armband. He heads for the same van the guy had been trying to book it to and swipes a hand behind the sun visor. A set of keys meets his wandering fingers, and he wastes no time cramming them into the ignition.

The other idiots pile into the van moments before Andrew burns rubber. 

Jackson cackles like he didn’t just royally fuck them all over. He must’ve grabbed a grenade from the crates of weapons before he got in, because he tosses a grenade behind them, pin dangling around his finger, as Andrew floors it.

* * *

(“Pull over here,” Romero says, waving a hand at The Foxhole’s terribly neon sign.

Andrew doesn’t respond verbally, but neither does he _pull over here. _

“Hey,” Romero says, louder this time. “I’m about to kill this asshole if we spend another minute in the same car as him, and we need to dump this van anyway. _ Pull over here. _”

There’s something about the demand that pisses Andrew off; possibly, it’s every word of it.

He pulls into a nearby gas station lot, but only because there’s a fierce-looking BMW parked in front of the diner across the street and Andrew’s fingers itch with the need to hotwire it.)

* * *

The shit-eating grin on Jackson’s face has Andrew more-than-contemplating the most convenient way to kill him.

“I made them the second I saw that fucker in the hat,” he’s saying, draping a shoulder over the back of the shiny vinyl seating of their booth. “He arrested me in ‘98. All of those guns belonged to pigs.”

His arm is inches away from touching Andrew. It’s no hardship to press a finger to one of the blades in his armband in anticipation of Jackson overstepping.

“What a fucking mess,” Lola moans. “Where are we going to find new guns by tomorrow?”

Romero’s glaring fiercely at Jackson. “You put us all at risk tonight. You’re lucky they didn’t hit Lola or I would’ve shot you back there, too.”

“But it turned out fine!” he says, all bravado. 

Andrew tunes out their argument. He doesn’t give a shit about their fight, instead looking around the diner with casual interest; he doesn’t see Neil in the front, but that doesn’t mean he’s not here.

It’s strange, this potential collision of his two worlds. Neil isn’t a whole truth, is too fabricated to be anything patently _real, _ but his presence alongside these shithead criminals isn’t something Andrew had planned on happening.

He drums his fingers on the tabletop, waiting for a hair-thin excuse to stab Jackson.

Matt approaches them with a pasted-on smile. He locks eyes with Andrew for a moment too long, before turning to Lola. “What can I get for you guys?”

They order. Andrew gets only a milkshake; he’s not hungry, but the sugar will keep him going until they make it back to Nathan’s hideout. Everyone else dives into their food with the kind of desperation that comes after surviving a deadly shootout, and Andrew finally relaxes against the booth’s seat now that Jackson’s arm has moved away.

After Matt comes by to drop off the bill, Jackson says, “We don’t need to pay.” He flicks his eyes downward, toward the badly-concealed gun tucked into his jacket.

So, so _sloppy. _

Andrew would kill him right here and now if it weren’t for Allison’s sharp gaze from behind the diner’s counter. 

He slams his empty cup on the tabletop. Romero and Jackson startle at the motion, though Lola’s eyes are narrowed, watching him carefully.

“I’m leaving,” Andrew says. 

Jackson frowns, looking down at his unfinished food. “Hey, I’m not done–”

He’s already on the move. “I don’t give a fuck. But you might, without a ride back.”

The others curse and scramble after him. Matt looks at him as he leaves, but ultimately says nothing when they leave without paying.

It’s not Andrew’s fucking problem, anyway.

* * *

“You are a fucking idiot,” Nathan says when they’re piled back into the building. “I should kill you where you stand.”

Jackson’s sobbing, pathetic and incoherent as another knife twists into the flesh of his abdomen. “I’m sorry,” he keens. “He was a pig!”

“You don’t trust me,” Nathan says, voice perfectly level despite the havoc he’s wreaking upon another living human’s flesh. “Is that it?”

“No, no, no,” Jackson whines. In the nearly-empty building they’re camping out in, his cries echo off the walls. Pretty decent acoustics, now that Andrew’s thinking about it.

“You think I’m stupid enough to not have cops on my payroll? You _fucking _idiot, killing one of my most loyal men. I’d return the favor, but you _ owe _ me for this, now.”

Andrew yawns wide enough to crack his jaw. Jackson’s pleading is loud enough to cut through the pulse of music in his ears, which is frankly pathetic. His pain tolerance must be remarkably low: none of Nathan’s cuts are even fatal. 

It’s getting redundant at this point, honestly. _ “Please _stop_,” _ Jackson says, and the word rankles enough that Andrew finally tears his earbuds out.

“Kill him or make him shut up,” he tells Nathan flatly, the first words he’s spoken since they left the diner. He’s glad his voice comes out even, despite the fact that his skin’s crawling at the tinnitus-ringed echo of _please _in his ears.

“I agree with the kid,” Lola says from across the room, legs kicked up onto the table. She files her nails idly. “My ears are fucked from the shots tonight and I can still hear him too clearly.”

Nathan laughs, dark and amused, as he lets Jackson go. “Clean yourself up. You’re still running this job tomorrow morning. The rest of you,” he barks. “You’re all staying here tonight. Nobody leaves until we’re fucking _ bathing _ in money orders.”

After this one, Andrew’s going to have to find some leverage. He’s over this: Nathan hiring incompetent assholes, interfering with his personal life, demanding things from Andrew that Andrew’s no longer apathetic enough to give.

It’s just one more day. His patience has become a more tangible thing under Bee’s care over the years, but Andrew’s well has officially run dry. Nathan will get nothing from him, after this.

One more day, and then he’ll either kill Nathan Wesninski or bow out of this entire world entirely.

Or both. Both sound good.


End file.
